Barbra And The Bosnian

This is a sequel of sorts to other 'Barbra' vampire stories. It might be worthwhile to read the others first.

*****

BOOM

The sound hammered in the hallway of the French public estate, expanding to take up the space, leaving behind a ringing metallic tone. There was another one.

BOOM

Barbra could feel it, sense the bullet impact, but there wasn't any pain at all, and looked down at a hole in her shirt. The other had missed. She had a big-ass bullet hole in her chest and wasn't dead. She wasn't even hurt. She felt herself fixing up, healing, as she wondered. She smiled, her teeth growing longer. She was fully changed.

The guy in front of her, dressed in the usual mafia tracksuit, was absolutely goggle-eyed, stupefied and staring at her in shock. He actually looked at the silver, shining pistol in his hand, turning it, as if it had turned into a squirt gun or toy.

Barbra thought, "It may as well be a squirt gun." She decided to get theatrical. She spread her arms, twitching her hands.

She said, in English, "Hey, motherfucker. You're dead." The man couldn't understand her, and said something in French. She laughed, the threat, the deep malicious sound she'd fallen into. Then she was on him. He died fast. There was a lot of blood and she just gulped it down.

Whimsically, she continued the theatricality: she dragged the body to a window, punched out the safety glass, and tossed it out. They were several stories up and it took a while for him to hit: when he did there was an amusing 'thump', followed by another, whooshing noise. He'd bounced once. Barbra wiped her hands in an exaggerated motion, like something in a movie, a Three Stooges move except for all the smearing blood, and walked down the hallway of the estate.

A woman in a hijab and holding a large shopping bag, stared at her, transfixed. Barbra stopped in front of the woman and reached a hand under her blood-soaked shirt. She put a finger through the bullet hole and waggled it.

Barbra said, in horrible French, "Aw Ruh-vore."

The woman's eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. Her body dropped to the stained concrete.

Barbra looked at her for a second. Sirens started up, far too close. Barbra considered her options. The woman lay on the floor, out cold. The bag she was carrying spilled groceries: bread, an apple. Barbra looked down at the floor, and the bloody footprints she was leaving. She walked down the corridor slowly, thinking. She felt herself getting sexually aroused.

"Uuungh..."

This part was the worst, the anticipation right after eating. Or drinking. Feeding. Whatever it was she did. She bent over with desire. It was awful, totally uncontrollable. And she realized the night was fleeting by, too quickly. She'd spent too much time playing with the criminal she'd just killed. She was going to have to find a place to stay. And fuck someone as well.

"Shit!"

She walked, stuffing her hands in her pockets to touch herself. She made it to the stairway, and down; as she reached a landing a man appeared, entering into the stairwell from a door. She stopped and looked at him. He saw her blood-covered body and froze. Something went on in his face. Barbra studied him; he was probably forty or so, salt and pepper facial hair, dark eyes; there was some deep message of anguish around his mouth. She put the question in his mind, and he said it, in heavily accented English.

"Do I know you?"

Barbra smiled, feeling herself get wet. "You're about to."

He walked up the stairs and she followed. He was reasonably well built, not bad for a middle-aged man, but she knew his physique wasn't the issue here; she just needed the release and his blood smelled clean. But there was something in his mind, something awful; she had felt similar things in the minds of killers, but this man was something different. There was a wall, or a container, in there, sunk deeply. She gasped when she realized what was going on.

The man had blocked memories. He didn't know he had memories in his head. He'd sealed them off. It fascinated her: this was new. Interesting. Stimulating. She actually was curious about this one: she really wanted to have sex with him, outside of the basic need.

The sirens got closer, then stopped; the police were at the estate, probably clustered around the body. She had to get inside. The man led her to an empty hallway, to a scratched and battered door, and went in. He turned; she was at the entrance, waiting in agony. The man squarely faced her, looking directly into her eyes, her killer eyes. She got frustrated, then confused; this one was weighing whether to invite her inside. This was also new; typically men would just automatically want her. This man was hesitating. She tried to look into his mind, and found moral confusion. Weird.

Barba said, "I won't hurt you. Please invite me in."

The man stared at her, the box or container in his head set in there like a concrete block. His unwillingness had something to do with the memories. Barbra grunted, and begged. She couldn't believe it.

"Ungh... please."

The man nodded and waved his hand. It wasn't enough, and Barbra had to prompt him. "You have to say it. Out loud."

The man said something in another language, not English, something Eastern European, but the message was clear, and she was able to go inside. She groaned in relief. He closed the door and she was in his home.

The man turned and walked into a kitchenette type area. The floor was concrete, covered with a thick rug. There was a large, elaborate bird cage in the living room, with no bird in it. No pictures on the walls. It looked like a slightly dressed-up prison cell. The man was speaking to her, and Barbra started; she was still very ready. It wasn't going to go away, no way. She had to fuck this guy.

"Speak English, please," she told him.

He paused, then said, "Coffee? You like coffee?"

Barbra didn't feel like hiding what she was. She said, rudely, "I can't fucking drink it, I don't give a shit. Come here."

She strode into the kitchenette, gripped the sides of his face, and stared directly into his dark, swimming eyes. She bumped herself against his pelvis, going nearly frantic. He responded, but half-heartedly; she had the sudden thought the man might be homosexual, gay, but darting around in his head, that wasn't the case, and besides, she could always tell.

The man's cock got hard, but in a biological way, not from any real desire. Fucking weird. Barbra took his arm, dragged him into the living area, and dumped him on the rug-covered floor. She ripped off his belt, breaking the buckle, yanked his trousers open, and thrust down her pants. She got him inside her as quickly as she could.

She had a concern the guy would come too fast, but with a quick look around in his head, she knew that wasn't going to happen. She rode him. It was terrible. Probably the dumbest, least arousing sex she'd ever had in her... life...? It would have been offensively awful if she hadn't needed it so bad. The guy barely touched her; she had to put his hands on her thighs and fuck him. The orgasm didn't take long, but it was an utterly perfunctory thing, a maintenance climax, not only nothing special, but kind of depressing and pointless. It pissed her off, it was so stupid, and she considered killing the guy for being such a limp-dicked cold fish.

She didn't though; she had a little rule that once she told someone she wasn't going to hurt them, she never did; it would have been unfair, dishonest.

After her own orgasm, she had to work on his orgasm, and after a ludicrously long time, he finally released a spoonful or so of the protein strands she loved so much. She lifted off and pulled up her pants, angry and offended. What the fuck was wrong with this idiot?

She felt frustrated and irritated. She angrily stripped off her clothes and dumped them in a pile on the floor. She bounced a little on her feet, naked; it was bright outside. The sun was up. She was trapped in here with this guy. He got up and wandered the flat for a little while. She watched him wipe down the kitchen area.

She looked around in his head. There were some powerful images in there. She saw fires, frightened people, white-painted military vehicles. Barbra poked around in his heart some. The overwhelming feeling in him was bewilderment and confusion. Fear was the lesser of his emotions, the strongest was confusion. She smiled grimly. The man was a mess, inside.

Barbra wandered the flat naked, touching things while he fussed in the kitchen area. There didn't even seem to be a television. It wouldn't be dark again for hours and hours, and for some reason she wasn't tired at all. "I have all day to kill," she thought. "What the fuck am I going to do for amusement?"

The main area had the empty bird cage, the crude furnishings. She left that room and wandered to what seemed to be a sleeping area. That was crude as well: a bed-type arrangement and a cheap dresser. A chest of nondescript appearance set on the floor against one wall. Barbra glanced at the man in the kitchen. He was still fussing with dishes and pots, head down. He looked like he was thinking or concentrating. She lifted open the chest.

It had personal belongings in it, the only things she'd seen so far. She rustled around in them; she found a small doll, and then a woman's dress. Weird. A medal with a red star on it, a book in some other alphabet, Russian, maybe. Underneath all of it was a flat box. She opened it: it had photographs inside. There were pictures of a young woman, becoming progressively older in photographs. A wedding photo, a picture of a baby, a young girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old. A family portrait of the three people. The man was easily identifiable. It was his family. She studied the photograph of the woman very carefully, thinking.

Barbra had a thought, a curious idea. She smiled, an inquisitive smile. She could feel, and sense, people and exploit them, get them to give her money, do things for her. It seemed to be a kind of hypnosis. She'd looked around in a lot of people and used what she found for what she needed; she'd never occupied anyone before, though; and she had all day. She wondered if she could make this guy think she was someone else, fool him into believing she was another person, using what she found. It might be fun. Fun. She needed some fun. Entertainment, a pastime. It might be worth it. She studied the photo portrait of the woman when she was young.

She wondered if she could use that image to manipulate someone. She'd never tried becoming someone else in a human mind; making them think she was someone else, fooling them. She wondered if she could do it. It might be a useful skill. She muttered, smiling, "It's worth a try."

Barbra removed the dress, shook it out. The man was standing motionless in the kitchen, frozen somehow. She got the impression he'd done it a lot. She held the dress up to herself; it wasn't quite her size, but she could squeeze into it. She did it, flinging it over her head, smoothing the fabric out as well as she could, and padded in bare feet into the kitchen, ready for the game, her daytime amusement.

She moved around in the man's mind, and found a greeting in his first language, things people would say to each other. She said, out loud, "Doh-bar dan." She had no idea what it might mean in English. There was another word in there, too: 'Lee-yoobav', but she had even less of an idea what that might mean. The man turned, stared at her, the dress, and he opened up just enough for her to find the woman in the photos, the wife, in him.

She instantly regretted it: his anguish, the palpable pain, hit her like a hammer. She wasn't ready at all. It felt like being punched by a very powerful boxer. Barbra stumbled, shocked. "Shit!" She worked to recover. It washed past her; flowed around; this wasn't amusing at all. It was something about the woman. She almost stopped, almost decided to kill the guy, but remembered her promise and decided to stick out her little experiment: she could do this.

His questioning eyes traveled over her body, and she had to collect herself, trying to find the reference point in him, a strong memory. She found it. There was an episode of time, of the two at a beach, watching an incredible, impossibly blue, topaz ocean. The woman, wearing a vintage-looking swimsuit, scampered into the water. The man watched. The little girl from the photos played in the sand, laughing, smiling.

The mental block inside the man cracked open. Barbra grunted from the rush, and fell backward against the rough wall, sucking in breath. She had no idea human beings could feel so intensely. She bent over, hands on her knees, shaking. There was a quick image, flitting out of the block, of the woman and blood. It vanished as quickly as it came. Barbra collected herself. Looking at herself, as best she could, Barbra realized she was still smeared with blood. She'd forgotten. That's what was doing it, the wedge into the man. The combination of the dress and the blood on her body. She decided to say something to him, try to make him focus; she looked up and stared into his eyes.

Barbra said, "I'm here."

She didn't know who, exactly, might be 'her', but she was making him decide who she could be. She waited, breathing; the man's mind and heart calmed down, and then he saw who he wanted her to be.

Barbra saw her own image in his mind, his memories and perceptions, shifted, and became for him, the woman, his wife. He staggered to her, putting out a hand, and touched her face. His hand came away spotted with drying blood. He looked at his palm and shook his head. He took her wrist and led her to the bathroom. Barbra had forgotten about it, since she didn't do that anymore, but allowed him to do it. He opened a tap and ran water into a public-flat type bathtub.

He helped her remove the dress, watching her with an incredible expression of pain and cautious anticipation. When the dress was removed completely, the block of memories opened some more, and Barbra saw the woman again, face down in a weed-filled ditch, arms under her body, wearing a similar dress, hair in a tangle. The man led her into the tub and unhooked a spray unit.

He took a scrub cloth and washed her body, carefully, delicately, lovingly cleaning the blood off her skin. She let him do it. It was interesting, unique. It was a ritual, a special thing, something she'd never experienced when she was human, nothing at all like it, ever. He sang softly, a lullaby or something, a quiet, lyrical expression, as he cleaned her body.

When they were done she stepped out of the tub and he dried her off, gently rubbing the towel on her skin, touching every square centimeter of her. He helped her put the dress back on and led her into the kitchen. He put a pot on the stovetop and began boiling water; he started to make coffee. He began talking to her in his language, a quiet, simple conversation. Her occupying a person in his mind didn't extend to language, and Barbra had no clue what he was saying; it seemed to be just some routine, day-to-day chatter. She waited, standing next to him, then moved closer and put her hand on his shoulder.

The man turned and smiled to her, enjoying her touch. She moved closer, and he put his hand under her chin, tipped her head back, and kissed her lips. She saw an image of the two of them, the man and his wife, young, naked, in a bed in an afternoon. Like newlyweds, before the daughter. Then she saw the daughter, the little girl of six or seven years, with the top half of her face shot away. The man shuddered violently and the box opened completely. Barbra let the images rush out, the fire and blood, the sense of desperation and confusion and utter bewilderment. This guy was totally lost. He'd been lost for quite a while.

She said her line again: "I'm here."

He clenched her to him, grasping her tightly, stroking her hair and back, moving his hands on her body, desperately feeling her; he had a sense of disbelief, astonishment. He was gasping, breathing heavily, in a kind of relief. Barbra wondered how she was going to extricate herself from this situation she'd created. She thought, realized she still had hours to spend somehow, and made a decision. She leaned up and kissed him carefully, then drew him to the simple mattress.

She undressed him, and when he was naked he lifted her skirt, fondling her body and smiling, touching her all over. She shrugged the dress down below her shoulders and exposed her breasts; he touched her, kissed her nipples, palming her body and whispering softly. He left her dress on and kissed her skin, roving everywhere, gently touching and caressing. Barbra found herself enjoying it; it was interesting and exciting. She felt her teeth pop out a little; it was the first time she'd felt a sexual stir without killing and feeding. She felt herself get wet, the blood moving around in her body, redistributing to sexual areas. It was fun.

She drew him to her, got them into a sitting position, and lowered herself onto him; it felt good, very good, and she maintained the fiction of being his wife, the dead woman in the ditch, and she groped around on his body, fucking him. He gasped loudly and fucked her, not exactly roughly, but... passionately, she thought, she felt: passion. It was passion. She put the thought into his head to make it last, and he did, fucking her, touching her, kissing her mouth and neck. Her nails popped out a little and she scratched him slightly, trying very hard not to draw blood. He shouted out and pressed her against him, fucking.

They did it for a long while, until Barbra had a very pleasant orgasm, a fun little thing, a shaking, nice experience. She kept him in her until he came, and her body soaked up the protein strands. It was good, a pleasant diversion. When they were both done, she slipped off him and lay down, pressing close. She smoothed out the dress, covering herself again. He put his arms around her and sang softly, kissing her in afterplay. She put her face close and smiled to him. The horrific images faded, blended, made fuzzier, distant.

He told her he loved her and kissed her lips.

In his mind the daughter appeared; Barbra stiffened: she hadn't anticipated it! If the wife was there, the daughter had to be as well. It was part of the memory. She thought to herself, "Shit!" Now what? The memory of the daughter smiled and waved to her father; the man waved back, pride swelling in his heart. Barbra thought frantically; she didn't really want to fuck the guy over: he needed the imagery, the experience, too much. She didn't feel right dumping him back to his miserable reality. She tried to decide if her actions here were going to make the guy better, or worse, or what.

She roved around in his mind, his heart, and came to the conclusion the loss of his family was just too much: he wasn't going to recover. Happiness was gone. He was a shell, unable to move on, trapped. She'd let out his memories, and he wasn't going to be able to live with them. It had gone on too long. She sighed and frowned; then made a decision.

He asked, "Shta? What?" in his language, but for some reason this time she understood him.

She said, "Our daughter is sleeping. Just a minute." She got up and walked to the main room, leaving him behind. She quickly gathered some clothing out of a bin, her own clothing, and small blanket; she lumped them up and put the blanket over the shape. It could pass for a small child sleeping under a cover. She returned to the bedroom; he'd put his trousers back on.

"Come, come see." She took his hand and led him to the main room. He looked at the shape and gasped, shocked. She'd brought the daughter back. She saw the images, the face of the daughter, waving, smiling. He moved to the shape on the floor, bending over. He looked back to his wife and smiled, eyes glistening. Barbra waited for him to turn away and reach for his child. She balled up her fist and struck the base of the skull, just right. It was instant.